The Girl Is Going To Stay
by Sita Z
Summary: Even the Great Dragon doesn't know everything. A Christmas one-shot about two-sided coins and flawed metaphors, Gwen's daughter making her bottle float and Arthur and Merlin arguing over chestnuts.


**Warning**: This story deals with three people (two men and a woman) in a relationship, so it's **partly Slash** (no explicit scenes). If that's not your cup of tea, you know the deal.

**Author's Note**: I love 'Merlin', I really do. But sometimes the show's take on female characters frustrates me, and also the way either Gwen or Merlin (depending on your point of view/OTP) are continually cast into the role of the third wheel. So I wrote this story as a Christmas present to myself, and hopefully to everyone who reads it.

As always, I own nothing.

Enjoy!

* * *

**_Gwen_**

Every year, when the days get shorter and the winter storms aren't far away, they come to Camelot. They travel year-round, I've been told, and this is the time when they stop at Camelot, standing in their corner of the market place in their long brown robes and making speeches. Preaching the gospel, they call it. Usually, a small crowd gathers around them. Some to listen, some to laugh, and some to have their aches and pains cured, as wandering scholars sometimes do. The brown-robes always refuse, though. That is not what the gospel is about, they say.

I listened once or twice, when I had a minute to spare from helping at home and serving my lady. I'm not sure I liked their gospel, even if it comes from a 'kind and gentle lord', in the words of the brown-robes. Too much fire and brimstone, too much talk of demons lurking everywhere and tempting mankind to sin and evil. Far too often, they are she-demons and take the shape of beautiful women who offer enchanted fruit to men and lead them to their fall. It frightens me. Morgana liked to hear stories like that, stories that gave you a chill and made you jumpy for a while, but I prefer tales of adventure, of magic and far-away lands. I can remember those stories when I do my chores, see images in my mind's eye as if I were looking at one of Gaius' books. I don't want to see images of evil women and men burning in a horrid place called 'hell'.

There is one story I liked, however. One of the younger brown-robes told it. There were no demons in it, just a young woman and her husband, and a baby that was not his. She said it had come to her from a holy spirit, and when it was born, kings and peasants alike came to see the miracle. The young brown-robe had a parchment with a picture on it – winged elves in long white cloaks, guarding the child.

Morgana preferred the second part of the story, about an evil king who murdered little children and a boy who got away through cunning and just the right amount of magic (or divine providence, as the brown-robes called it). But I like to remember the young woman and her child, and the husband who stayed with them, who didn't draw his sword and kill the boy who wasn't his. The tale is so different from the rest of the brown-robes' gospel. It is about a smart woman who saved herself from shame and possible punishment, who saved her boy from growing up a bastard and her husband from the mockery of being cuckolded. She is the hero of the story, and in the end she is rewarded when wise men bring her gifts and swear fealty to her son. Even Magic approves of her, sending winged guardians to protect her child through the night.

It is a tale every mother should tell her daughter, and I will tell it to mine, when she is old enough. As of this day, Ninian is a few days shy of six months, and far too young to care about stories. What she cares about is having learned to suck on her toe (she couldn't be more proud), banging her rattle against the side of her crib and being cooed at by the man whom she made her devoted slave the moment she first opened her eyes.

Yes, my husband, the King of Camelot and Defender of the Realm, is utterly and entirely wrapped around the tiny finger of one Lady Ninian, heiress to the throne. When she first rolled over from her back onto her stomach, he gifted a peasant farmer who'd come to ask for a new cow with a herd of ten fine pieces of cattle. When her first tooth grew and she cried pitifully, he carried her up and down the royal nursery for hours at a time, singing all the battle songs and tavern ditties that he knew. When young Sir Dagonet joked about her ears sticking out like two jug handles, my husband ordered him to the training field and 'took him apart', in Merlin's words. It was up to him and Gaius to tend to the poor man's bruises, and he wasn't amused.

"Her ears do stick out," he told Arthur that evening. "Even you can't deny it. They're huge."

"She is the fairest girl Camelot has ever laid eyes on," Arthur said belligerently, throwing a spoon at Merlin. "And her hair will cover them when she gets older."

Merlin turned the spoon into a floppy doll with a crown and waggled it in front of Ninian, who laughed. "Yes, that's right, princess. Your father's being a dollophead again. Gwen, I swear she understands every word I say."

"She made her bottle float today," I told him, because I know that these things will make him smile all evening, even if he denies it. "Round and round the nursery."

And sure enough, Merlin beamed at me with that ridiculous, happy smile of his. "Who's a little sorceress?" he asked, and tickled her stomach. "Who's going to put a spell on her father and make him bray like a donkey if he doesn't give her sweetmeats, huh?"

"A princess of Camelot would never stoop to such behavior," Arthur said grandly. "Magic notwithstanding."

I for my part am not so sure. Sometimes there's a twinkle in Ninian's eyes that reminds me very much of Merlin when he calls Arthur a 'clotpole', and any daughter of mine would do almost anything for sweetmeats.

I know Arthur loves her more than his own life, and has ever since the day she was born. Merlin and Gaius were with me that day – I didn't want a midwife I didn't know, I wanted them, and I didn't care about men not being supposed to know about the secrets of birthing. There isn't much of a secret to it, really. It's painful, there is a lot of blood, and sometimes the woman doesn't get up again, leaving behind a child that is either given to a wet-nurse, if one is available, or wrapped in linen and buried in its mother's arms. It's sad, but it happens often enough. It is what might have happened to my husband, had he been born in a peasant's hut instead of a palace, where a dozen hired women were ready to give their milk to the prince. Knowing that must have been a comfort to Igraine, when she realized that she would not see her son grow up. It was a comfort to me when the first cramp ripped through my belly, indicating that my child was about to be born. I knew she would be given a chance, no matter what happened to me.

Gaius was wonderful – calm, collected, lending a helping hand when I needed one and keeping Merlin focused. I've never seen Merlin as pale as he was that day, although he made an effort to smile and offer words of encouragement. Unlike the King, who was out on the training field teaching his knights to fear for their lives.

I survived, and so did my daughter, the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, jug handle ears and all. We knew her coloring would be like mine, mostly. My grandmother was a hostage from far-away lands, and her dark skin was inherited by her son and then by Elyan and me, even though my mother was as fair-haired and freckled as they come. Any child of mine will have dusky skin and dark hair, although the blue eyes were a surprise. Gaius thought that they might darken with time, but they did not. They are still bright blue, like her father's when he comes in from a day's hunting and feels especially pleased with himself and the world.

Sometimes they turn golden, of course. Like her other father's, my other husband's.

It makes her even more beautiful to me.

* * *

**_Arthur_**

This time of the year makes me think of my father. There are summer people and winter people – Gwen is a summer person, warm and calm, Merlin is a spring person, lively and unpredictable at times. Gaius is a winter person, reasonable and sometimes harsh. My father was a man of late autumn and early winter. He was a gray, cool presence, wearing black and silver - never red, even though his knights and soldiers were decked out in scarlet. He hated magic and had a crest that bore the likeness of a magical creature. He could be calm and dangerous in one moment, and full of tempestuous feelings in the next, like the months of the winter storms.

There are times when I regret that he never met his granddaughter. He would not have approved, of course – not of her mother, not of her magic, not of the way in which she was conceived. But he did not approve of Morgana, and he loved her until the very end. She was an early winter person like him. She was _family_.

My father passed many things on to me. His stubbornness – Gwen and Merlin both agree that I can be incredibly stubborn, although she calls it "determined" and he calls it "pigheaded". His love for battles and military tactics. His tendency to get a cold as soon as the leaves turn red, and sniffle and sneeze all through the winter season.

His inability to father a child.

My mother was never the barren one, although it is the version that my father and Gaius fed the court, for political reasons. Igraine had born a child before she became my father's wife; a little girl called Elaine, who died when she was three years old. I learned all this when my father was long gone, when I found out the truth about so many things. Nimueh gave him the gift of fertility, and the Old Religion took a life for the life that my father should not have created. Every pyre that burned, every family driven from their home, every time magic was persecuted, it was my father's pride demanding its due.

My little girl was not born of magic. Merlin offered; he could give me the gift Uther had received from Nimueh, and he could make it so that mother and child stayed alive. He told me as we lay in bed together, on the morning of the day I was to wed Guinevere. I was so angry that I very nearly raised my hand against him.

"If you think that I would see you dead – that I would cast you aside-"

"Gwen deserves a husband," he said. "Not a man who parades her around court during the day and slips off to bed his lover at night. She deserves to be happy."

By the Gods, and this from the man who calls me pigheaded. "And you think Gwen would be happy? To look at her child and know that it lives because you died?"

"Maybe _I _would be happy," he snapped. Like every spring person, he angers suddenly, and when he does, the words are out of his mouth before he has time to think. "I don't particularly look forward to serving you breakfast after your wedding night, in the very bed where we-" He broke off, and said the rest very quietly. "I'm not sure I can live like that, Arthur."

We made love that morning, and it felt like the last time. That evening, Gwen asked Merlin to stay.

"It's as much your bed as it is Arthur's, and now mine. And it's certainly big enough for the three of us."

She _wanted_ him there. I could see it in her eyes; she had never imagined it any other way. I knew he could see it, too. It was the only way he would have agreed.

And we are good together. Gwen and Merlin love each other in a way that is beautiful – full of kindness and laughter, spring and summer merging into one. When I'm with them, I feel surrounded by warmth and family, two words that I never associated with one another. I'm an autumn person like my father, although perhaps early autumn. The time of the year when fog and rain take turns with cool, sunny days - ideal weather for hunting.

So my little girl was not born of magic, but she _is_ magic. She floats her dolls and bottles across the room, she turns her little tunics the colors of the rainbow, she makes sunbeams dance around her crib like fireflies. She is beautiful, and all I want to do is stare at her all day. I'd fight a hundred battles just to make sure that nothing disturbed her sleep.

"So would I," Merlin sighs when it's his turn to get up. Soon, the cries from the corner of the room taper away. Gwen and I watch our husband-friend-lover traipse back and forth, gently rocking the child in his arms and conjuring little lights to distract her. Ninian gurgles and coos in that special way she only ever does with Merlin. It must be a sorcerer thing.

"I love you," Gwen tells me and I kiss her, my thumb tracing her soft cheek and brushing back her hair.

Ninian soon falls asleep, and Merlin slips in with us, bringing more warmth with him.

Outside, the winter storms are howling, but they never touch us.

* * *

**_Merlin_**

Kilgharrah often spoke of magic as if it were a living being of its own. He called it a 'she' – Magic, a person, a woman. Then, I put it down to his many eccentricities. He was wise, no doubt, but twenty-odd years alone in a dark cave do not a stable person make. Or a stable dragon. Anyone would have become a little strange.

Now that I'm no longer hiding my magic, I'm beginning to understand what he meant. There are times when I can sense her myself, and yes, she is female. Not physically – Magic is not, and has never been a person. But there is a definite feeling of _woman_ about her, in the way she manifests herself in everything that surrounds us. And she has distinct preferences and dislikes, just like any woman I've ever known. Uther, for instance – whenever he was around, she cringed away, as if his very presence offended her. It wasn't necessarily his hatred of her – for many years, Arthur carried the same hatred, and yet she tolerates him, watches him with something akin to amusement. She had a great fondness for Morgana, and accepts Gwen with a shrug, just as she accepts Gaius.

Her feelings are not mine, you see. Morgana sca- _intimidated_ me, and Gwen and Arthur are my loved ones. But Magic has her own will, her own ideas. I can't influence her, or argue with her. She does as she pleases, and I'm lucky that most of the time, I'm in her good graces.

My greatest relief is that Magic seems to love my little daughter. Arthur's daughter, Gwen's daughter. Ninian is all of that, and Magic understands. I can feel her there when the four of us are together, and she approves. She lets my daughter play with sunbeams as if they were toys, and cured the tiny sick kitten Gwen brought back from the stables, a few weeks after Ninian was born. The kitten, who is slowly growing into his name (Wolfram von Eschenbach, I don't know what Gwen was thinking), is on his way to becoming a fat tom and spends most of his time warming my daughter's feet. Ninian loves him.

So yes, Magic wants to see my family happy, just like she herself seems to be happy these days. Back when Uther reigned, she was restless – she would lie low for weeks at a time, and then suddenly erupt violently, bringing a hailstorm that ruined the crops or a snarling beast that would terrorize the kingdom's outer borders. Now, however, there seems to be a certain calm about her that I never sensed when Arthur's father lived. There's a trace of it it in the air when I take my seat next to Gwen at the Round Table, my 'Court Sorcerer' face firmly in place ("_Impressive_," Arthur said. "Try to look impressive. And for heaven's sake, stop fiddling with your robes." "They itch." "They're ceremonial and appropriate for the King's First Magical Advisor." Gwen told me that her official dresses itch much worse and it's only fair. I never stand a chance when they gang up on me like that.).

Magic doesn't much care about protocols, ceremonies and titles. But I feel her new-found calm surround me as I sit in front of the fireplace in the royal chambers, Gwen and His Pratliness sprawled on the rug beside me. The Yule log is burning, filling the room with a heady pine scent and making me drowsy in a not-quite-ready-to-go-to-bed way. Gwen had the log brought in earlier in the day. She told us that it is something her father used to do when she and her brother were young – burn the Yule log, watch the flames and maybe roast a few chestnuts.

Ninian lies on her stomach, gurgling and trying to lift herself onto all fours as she has been doing for almost a week now. Soon, through a little magic or maybe sheer stubbornness, she'll discover how it's done and our quiet days will be over. If she is anything like her father – her non-magical father – she'll begin conquering the castle as soon as she can crawl.

"Don't hog the chestnuts, Merlin," Arthur says sleepily, prodding me with his socked foot. "Leave one or two for your King, will you?"

"One or two dozen, you mean," I respond, prodding him back with the ease of long practice. "The bowl's half empty, and Gwen and I have hardly had two between us."

"There, there, children," Gwen says, lazily stroking Wolfram von Eschenbach, who is _rumbling_ rather than purring like a normal cat. "It's the season to be sharing, isn't it?"

"Ga!" Ninian cries, and Arthur nods sagely.

"My thoughts exactly."

I don't think this is quite what Kilgharrah imagined, all those times he spoke of destiny, two-sided coins and the uniting of a great kingdom. He never had much time for the ordinary, my dragon friend. Sometimes I wonder what he did in his cave, when no one was calling to be saved from mortal foes or to be given cryptic advice. Did he ever just bask in the sun, burn down a few bushes for a lark, or pick at a scab to see if it came off without bleeding? He must have, although I can't imagine it. He was always the wise one, and not much else.

Looking at my daughter, though, I understand that he didn't know everything, after all. Magic has her own will, and not even dragons or destiny can change that. And she'll surprise you every time you think you have it all figured out.

Which, everything considered, is rather good news. To all of us.

**The End**

* * *

**Happy holidays to everyone! As always, feedback is very welcome!**


End file.
